


close to you

by ThePeetaBread



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Domestic Clexa, F/F, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon Fix-It, Romance, basically clexa with a baby, canon divergent from 3x07
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-06-08 22:41:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6876994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePeetaBread/pseuds/ThePeetaBread
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no gear pressed to her forehead, no weapon strapped to her thigh, no reminder that Lexa does not just belong to her, but to every single member of the thirteen clans. Today, Lexa is just Lexa, the love of Clarke's life, and the mother of her child.</p>
<p>After five years of peace, Clarke and Lexa bring a daughter into the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this fic has been my post-3x07 coping mechanism for the past few weeks so it will be primarily fluff and will absolutely have a happy ending. most of it is already written and should hopefully be updated fairly quickly. it moves at quite a steady pace as it will be set over 15+ years and its main purpose is just to show clarke and lexa happy and in love. screw canon. that's all. 
> 
> also the CoL storyline is dumb and doesn't exist
> 
> spemilys.tumblr.com

 

Clarke can’t stop staring at her.

Two green eyes gaze back at her, slow blinks framed by long, dark eyelashes. A tiny hand curls around her index finger, and an unsettled whimper escapes of a pair of pink, plump lips. She is only hours old, and she is the smallest human Clarke has ever seen in her life.

Clarke holds her as if she might break, arms stiff at the elbows, hand supporting her head the way her mother showed her. It's an awkward angle, and her arm is starting to ache but Clarke pays no mind to it, instead drawing the navy blanket that is slipping slightly closer to the baby's chin.

She dares to move her hand gently along the baby's head, smoothing down the messy tuft of blonde hair that sits atop it. Her fingers trail along a tiny eyebrow, across a round cheek and settle at her jaw as the baby lets out a tiny yawn, eyelids drooping sleepily.

She is tired, and will soon fall asleep in Clarke's arms. But Clarke cannot put her down, she is utterly enraptured, completely captivated. To move would be to stop staring at her. And Clarke can’t.

Arkadia is still. The usual whirl of work is silenced by the night, leaving only the steady hum of the generators and the shallow breath of her sleeping wife. The people of Arkadia are long gone in their slumber as the night turns into the early hours of the morning and Clarke has not slept a wink.

She doesn't think she could if she tried, her body is tired and sore but thrums with a rush of energy she finds out of her control. She sits on a chair next to her temporary bed, only inches from where Lexa lies and looks down upon the child in her arms, small, quiet and gorgeous.

Her daughter. Their daughter.

"I love you," Clarke whispers.

The words don't often come easy to Clarke, even now. There are so few she can say them aloud to, and it takes so long for her to muster up the courage to do so. But they come easily now, flow right off her tongue as she repeats them, two, three more times.

"I _love_ you,"

The baby looks up at her, eyes sleepy, and responds with a quiet murmur, tiny hands curling into her. She is too young to know now, but Clarke will make sure she does, everyday of her life.

Clarke can’t stop staring at her.

 

* * *

 

The Commander has never had a child before.

Titus is wary, as he often is, suspicious of Clarke, suspicious of the baby they conceived, and suspicious of the technology they used to do so.

Clarke hears them sometimes, screaming at each other down the corridors. It is unlike Lexa to shout, but there’s something about Titus that brings it out in her, maybe the condensation of his tone, or his clear distrust of Clarke and their union. When they married, Titus stormed out of the tower like a child, muttering wildly about traditions and the role of the Commander. Nowadays, he has learned to play his cards closer to his chest, and instead of criticising Clarke in front of Lexa, he reserves his glares for when Lexa is not watching.

And when Lexa announces the convincement of their first child, the glare Clarke receives is scalding.

“Heda,” He starts, eyes widening in panic, “It is not the role of the Commander to bring a child into the world—“

“We are at peace, Titus,” Lexa commands, lifting her chin elegantly, “We have been for five years. The role of the Commander has changed.”

“Heda, opening yourself up to such weakness—“

“I am not asking for your approval,” Lexa says curtly, “It is done. You should make peace with it,”

Titus looks back at her, lips tightening, and eyes filled with unearthed rage. For a moment, Clarke thinks he’s going to snap, reach out and scream at Lexa, attack her, let out all he has held in for the five years Clarke has been his roadblock. Instead, his expression lessons as he takes hold of himself, swallowing the words Lexa cut off with a bow of his head.

“Sha, Heda,” He says without an ounce of sincerity, eyes darkened, bottom lip twitching.

Nine months and a baby girl later, Titus wears the same expression as he lays eyes on her for the first time, nose wrinkled and lips thinned.

“Congratulations, Heda,” He says stiffly, smile tight, “She is beautiful,”

His cheeks are slightly reddened from the cold, shoulders still dusted with the snow he rode through to make it here. At his side, stands the Chancellor of Arkadia, Marcus Kane, face adorned with a proud smile.

“She is,” Kane remarks conversationally, smile as wide as Clarke’s ever seen it, “Isn’t she?”

Lexa sits at Clarke’s bedside, baby cradled into her arms expertly. She has been a mother for less than twenty-four hours but somehow she’s mastered the role already, and Clarke watches with an envious sort of wonder as she settles the baby with a slow rock and a gentle hum.

“Thank you,” Lexa answers as though she doesn’t hear the insincerity in Titus’ voice. With a slight frown, she looks to Titus inquiringly, curious about the packages held under his arm.

“Gifts from the thirteen clans,” Titus answers gruffly before she can ask, “I collected them from Polis,”

He settles thirteen small packages upon the end of Clarke’s bed, each wrapped neatly with yellow ribbon, “The Shadow Valley sends a hand-crafted dagger,” He begins, pointing to each package as he lists them, “The Desert Clan gives a leather sheath. The Ice Nation sends silk, Trikru gives armour,”

He prattles off the rest of the clans hurriedly, until Clarke’s bed is completely full of various assortments of weapons entirely inappropriate for a newborn. He pauses at the last package in his hands, shooting an appraising look towards Kane.

“From Skaikru,” He says disapprovingly, “Appears to be some sort of tree animal,”

It's a rabbit, Clarke thinks as Titus drops it to the bed, woven out of what looks like an old potato sack and pieces of scrap material. One arm is shorter than the other, and the two buttons used for the eyes are different sizes. It’s bursting at the seams, as if it has been thoroughly overstuffed.

“It’s a bunny,” Kane interjects, somewhat bashfully, “I stitched it myself,”

Clarke tilts her head, eyes honing in on the messy stitch work. When she looks up Kane is staring back at her, eyes filled with a hopeful sort of pride. In all honesty, Clarke thinks an actual stuffed rabbit might scare a young child less, but Kane has tried, that much is clear, and Clarke is thankful for his effort, thankful for him, and what he means to her mother.

“I love it,” She says honestly, and Kane beams.

“It is wonderful,” Lexa echoes her sentiment graciously, “Thank you Marcus,”

At this, she turns her attention to a sour-faced Titus, hand placed protectively on the top of the baby’s head.

“Give my gratitude to each of the ambassadors,” Lexa instructs, “Announce the arrival of a baby girl.”

“Sha Heda,” He bows, “Her name?”

At this, Lexa pauses, flickering a quick look to Clarke.

“We don’t have one yet,” Clarke says and Titus curls his lip.

“Very well,” Titus says, “Baby girl kom Trikru it is. Would that be all, Heda?”

Lexa nods, interest in Titus already lost in favour of staring down at the baby in her arms. Kane smiles, offers his congratulations one more time before following Titus’ march down the corridor, letting the door shut with a gentle clang.

Clarke turns her attention to Lexa, gentle smile tugging at her lips.

Her body aches, but her chest fills with light watching them together, watching Lexa’s hand stroke over their child’s forehead as if she is the most precious thing in the world.

"Would you like to hold her?" Lexa asks without looking away from their child, as if she might miss something if she does. Clarke knows the feeling, and lets her lips quirk upwards into a small smile.

"No," She says honestly, "I just like watching you with her,"

At this, Lexa looks up at her, meeting Clarke's eyes to match her smile with one of her own. Lexa's hair is not braided today, instead flowing down her shoulder in a single wave, just the way Clarke likes it. There is no gear pressed to her forehead, no weapon strapped to her thigh, no reminder that Lexa does not just belong to her, but to every single member of the thirteen clans. Today, Lexa is just Lexa, the love of Clarke's life, and the mother of her child.

Lexa looks back down at their baby, eyes filled with wonder as she strokes an adoring hand over her cheek. Her guard is down, Clarke notes, her eyes are wide and expressive, lips slightly parted.

"She is perfect," Lexa says abruptly, staring down at her with awe.

"She is," Clarke echoes, and she reaches her hand to meet Lexa's, interlocking their fingers with an affectionate squeeze.

"We should probably give her a name," Lexa says, softer this time, and she looks up to meet Clarke's gaze. There's something behind her eyes, something Clarke can't quite read.

"We probably should," Clarke affirms, watching her wife curiously.

Lexa is quiet for a long moment, gaze flickering from their sleeping baby to her and Clarke entwined fingers. Clarke knows this expression, she has all of Lexa memorised; Lexa is contemplating something, something she isn't sure if she should share. Clarke squeezes her fingers tenderly, giving her the gentlest of assurances. Lexa turns to look at her, lips pressed together tentatively.

"Perhaps there is a name we could consider,” She says hesitantly, caution in her eyes, "My mother— I always thought her name was beautiful,”

Lexa’s eyes drop down the child in her arms before Clarke can meet her eyes, shifting nervously.

Clarke inhales sharply. Lexa doesn’t speak of her mother, her father, her life before Polis ever, really. Clarke knows only two things; the first, is a forest fire burned her village to the ground when she was four years old, and the second is it took both of her parents with it.

Clarke remembers the name Lexa uttered to her in the safety of her embrace, softly, like it was only for Clarke to hear.

“Luca,” She recalls, stroking a finger over the back of Lexa’s hand.

"If you don’t like it— we can pick something else," Lexa says quickly but Clarke is already halfway sitting up to meet her lips, pressing warm and firm against them.

Clarke smiles.

"It's perfect,"

 

* * *

 

In the five years they’d been at peace, Clarke doesn’t think she’s ever gone so much time without working.

Her mother orders her to rest, and Lexa is there to enforce it, coaxing her back into bed with warm kisses and the promise to keep watch on their baby. Her friends drop by in shifts; Raven is the first to visit, Bellamy and their infant son Arlo in tow. Raven makes her laugh, despite the ache in her ribs, and Bellamy’s smile is warm. When they leave, Monty and Jasper replace them, and then Miller and Bryan, until Lexa is shooing half of Arkadia out the door so Clarke can get some rest. For a moment, it feels halfway normal. But then the doors swing open, and Lexa’s full guard comes into sight, a constant reminder of Lexa’s never-ending duty.

“Conquering clans is much easier than governing them,” Lexa once told her heatedly, face blotched an angry red from a day of negotiating. And for the most part – it was true. Lexa’s days are often consumed by the coalition, by the consistent maintenance it required to stay in tact. One day it was land disputes, the next it was trade routes, or inter-clan leadership changes.

Clarke’s workload is no less; her position as ambassador of Arkadia is juggled with her involvement of the small clinic she and Lexa formed at the center of the Polis markets, where she and two other healers dispersed medical treatment when needed.

They’ve only been gone four days, but Clarke dreads the amount of work waiting for them.

“When do we have to be back?” Clarke asks, pressing her cheek into the pillow and tilting her head slightly to meet Lexa’s gaze.

“When you’re ready,” Lexa says firmly, eyes soft, “There’s no hurry,”

Clarke snorts at this, “I think Titus might have something to say about that,”

Lexa presses her lips together, resisting the urge to match Clarke’s smile.

“Titus will manage,”

Lexa’s fingers touch her cheek and Clarke leans into them, not taking her eyes off of her. Lexa’s hair is tangled and curly, her face free of makeup, her clothes loose and casual. She looks tired, almost as tired as Clarke feels, and Clarke is hit with the sudden urge to pull her up into bed and melt into her.

A tiny gurgle from the crib next to her bed reminds her why she can’t.

Lexa must notice the drooping of her eyes because she presses the smallest of kisses to the inside of Clarke’s wrist and strokes a hand through her hair, “You should rest, Clarke,” She says, though Clarke takes no notice of her words, content with watching the soft flicker of her eyes.

“Sometimes I wish this was it,” Clarke says suddenly, a familiar melancholy weight pressing down upon her, “Just you, me and her. Is that selfish?”

Lexa looks at her for a long moment, quietly watching, mapping out every feature of Clarke’s face as it changes. Her hand squeezes Clarke’s hip, smile wistful.

“No,” She answers softly, “Sometimes I wish that too,”

 

* * *

 

Lexa is better at this than her, but Clarke always knew she would be.

Lexa can soothe Luca’s whimpers with a touch, stop her cries with a kiss. Lexa is the one to teach Clarke how to burp her, change her, settle her.

As she grows, tiny tufts of blonde hair grow longer, her cheeks grow plumper, her eyes wider. She learns to smile, to giggle, to laugh.

In the spring, she learns the value of her own hands, and spends hours staring at them, flexing her fingers wondrously. In the summer, she learns to crawl, and weaves in and out under the feet of guardsman until her hands are worn red and her knees covered in the dirt of the floor.

She learns Lexa laughs when she laughs, she learns Clarke will kiss her if she snuggles in close enough.

And she learns when she cries, Lexa cannot say no to her.

“Leave her,”

The lights are dimmed, the sky dark. Clarke lies in bed, absent-mindedly flicking through a novel gifted to her from Raven. To her left, Lexa sits bolt upright, gaze fixed closely on Clarke’s profile. Instead of the usual gentle hum of the city below, they listen to the cries of their screaming child, nestled in her crib only a few feet away.

“Clarke,” Lexa says diplomatically, the way she might speak to negotiate a trade deal, “I’m not sure I agree with this method of yours—“

"Lexa, she needs to learn to settle herself," Clarke repeats the phrase patiently for what seems to be the tenth time this evening, "She’s almost six months old,"

Her eyes stay focused on the page beneath her, but she can see Lexa in her peripheral, eyes on her like a hawk, like she’s trying to figure out the best way to change Clarke’s mind without undermining her. Clarke turns the page, and pretends as if she doesn’t see Lexa grind her jaw unhappily.

“So we let her scream herself to sleep?” Lexa asks, the diplomacy in her voice starting to wane and Clarke sighs, putting her book down in favour of pulling Lexa’s hands into her lap.

“Mom says we let her cry it out in twenty minute increments,“ Clarke says, entwining their fingers, “After twenty minutes you can check on her,”

“How many minutes has it been so far?” Lexa asks sharply and Clarke looks at her pointedly.

“Three,”

Lexa huffs, slamming back into the pillows. The sudden movement only makes Luca cry louder.

Clarke rolls her eyes, “You can’t coddle her forever,”

"I do not coddle her," Lexa says as if Clarke has greatly offended her.

"Good," Clarke says, patting her thigh, "Then you won't mind letting her cry for a while,"

The tension makes it hard to read, but Clarke tries her best anyway; the look Lexa gives her is withering, and with each passing minute, Luca’s wails seem to amplify. It is only when Luca wavers, and her sobs turn to screams that Lexa tugs at her arm, face filled with distress.

"Clarke—" Lexa says, agonised, and Clarke shuts her book, defeated.

"Fine," She groans, swinging her legs over the bed to press against the floor, "I'll check on her,"

"Clarke- if I could just-"

"I've got it," Clarke assures, "Don't worry,"

Lexa looks disgruntled, but softens when Clarke presses the gentlest kiss to her lips. Clarke’s ears ring slightly as she gets closer to Luca’s crib, and she leans over, stopping the force of Luca’s cries with a touch of her hand.

Immediately her incessant screaming dissolves into tiny, breathy whimpers, and she sniffles as Clarke picks her up and cradles her to her shoulder.

"It's okay," She whispers, "Mommy's here,"

Luca’s face is splotched red, her cheeks wet and her lip quivering as she falls into Clarke’s embrace, pressing herself into the heat of Clarke’s neck. Clarke runs a hand through Luca’s mop of soft, blonde curls, aware of Lexa’s eyes burning through her, and shoots her a conciliatory look.

“See?” She asks, “She’s fine,”

The way Lexa’s lips purse tells Clarke she’s unimpressed, and Clarke holds her gaze, rocking the baby in her arms defiantly.

Lexa thinks she's mean, she knows, but at least one of them has to be able to resist her, and based on the look in Lexa’s eye as she watches them, it will have to be Clarke.

Clarke kisses the top of Luca’s head, brushing her nose through the silk of Luca’s hair. The weight of Luca in her arms, the way she clings to her is almost irresistible, but Clarke is stubborn in her purpose, and presses a final kiss to her head before leaning down, and gently lowering Luca back into her crib.

“Clarke—“ Lexa protests anxiously as Luca’s eyes fill with tears and her bottom lip begins to quiver, tiny hands reaching for Clarke as she begins to whimper.

“Twenty minutes,” Clarke says stubbornly, pressing back the urge to give in to the baby, wrenching her eyes away from her.

Lexa is frowning now, spine stiff and eyebrows creased as Clarke makes her way back to the bed. Luca’s cries are softer now, like she’s tiring herself out and Clarke climbs into the spot next to Lexa, smile triumphant.

“See,” She murmurs gently, “She’s settling herself,”

Lexa looks hesitant, but doesn’t protest and Clarke curls an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. Luca's cries simmer slightly, and she sounds like she's exhausting herself as they dissolve into breathy whimpers.

“I told you I was right,” Clarke can’t help but whisper and she’s rewarded with Lexa’s elbow nudging into her ribs.

“Shop of,” Lexa says, though she looks relieved, and Clarke presses a heavy kiss to her cheek, tightening her hold.

She falls asleep to the sound of Luca’s hallowed breathing and Lexa’s body curled into her own.

 

* * *

 

When Clarke wakes, it is to an empty bed, furs ruffled and Lexa missing. It is still dark outside, she notes with a yawn, and the candles littering the room haven't quite flickered out yet. She has been asleep for less than a couple of hours. She rubs her eyes and sits up blearily, blinking at the empty crease in her bed for her missing wife before the realisation hits her. With an aggravated huff, Clarke looks over the other side of the room, where Lexa stares back at her, baby in her arms.

She has the decency at least, to look slightly guilty.

“ _Lexa_ ,” Clarke groans, voice thick with sleep.

"Clarke, your method was not working," Lexa says astutely, before she can say anything more, "She was crying long after you fell asleep with no signs of stopping,"

Clarke's method would have worked, she thinks briefly, if her wife were not such a sap.

Still, she can't bring herself to be mad. Not when Lexa has their daughter cradled into her chest so protectively, fingers tangled through long, loose, blonde curls.

Clarke sighs, "Fine," She concedes with a grumble, "I should have known you wouldn't be able to resist her,"

Lexa’s smile is knowing, and Clarke presses her face back into the pillows to hide her own.

 

* * *

 

 Clarke’s life is good.

Lexa is safe and warm and present. Lexa murmurs love against her lips every morning, nudges closely against her every night. Her clinic grows with every passing week; what was once a small stall with a single healer has now expanded to four of them, five when Clarke finishes training their newest recruit. Her mother has taken to visiting Polis with Kane every couple of weeks, and if she’s lucky, Raven or Monty, or Jasper will join them. And if they don’t, Clarke only has to wander down a couple of floors to be in friendly company, where Octavia and Lincoln and their young son, Dash live.

And Luca, Luca looks at her as if she’s the sun, eyes wide and sparkling emerald when Clarke is with her, tiny pink mouth often curved into the happiest of smiles.

Clarke’s life is good, but it doesn’t stop the nightmares.

They come in flashes, scrambled pieces of past and present that form a warped estimation of her future. Sometimes, it’s entire cities that burn, sometimes it’s an army, or an assassin, or a friend.

‘Wanheda’ They always cry, or scream, or hiss, ‘Where you are, death will always follow’

Their deaths are always the same; painful, long, unnecessary. They die by her hand, or for her mistakes. They die screaming, they die in fear. They die because of her, always.

When Clarke wakes, jolting upright and drenched in sweat, Lexa’s hand on her back drawing her closer is the only reminder.

Her life is good.

 

* * *

 

The first day of her first summer, Luca speaks her first word.

Granted, it’s through a mouth full of potato, and neither Lexa nor Clarke quite understand what she’s trying to say until she reaches out her hands, bouncing gently in her seat.

“Mama!”

Lexa looks over to her, fork clattering to her plate, and her lips split into a wide, excited smile. Clarke blinks, heart speeding in her chest as Luca repeats it, mouth opening in disbelief.

“What did you say?” She asks, grasping one of Luca’s hands within her own, “Did you say Mama?”

“Mama!” Luca repeats, and Lexa pulls her from her highchair with a laugh, spinning her around in her arms.

“She said Mama,” Lexa tells her excitedly, and Clarke can’t stop the smile that plasters her face at the sight of them.

Before Clarke can say anything, before she can even think to savour the moment, the doors to the dining room swing open and Titus strides forward, shoulders squared tightly, as if something of great importance has to be told.

Luca reaches her hands out over Lexa’s shoulder, looking directly at Titus, “Mama!”

Clarke snorts into her plate at Lexa’s frown and watches Titus stiffen with indignity.

“The King of the Shadow Valley has arrived in Polis and is requesting your presence,” Titus announces, only sounding slightly miffed, “He says it is a matter of great importance,”

Lexa frowns, shoulders tensing. Clarke looks between the two of them, confused. The King of the Shadow Valley was an elderly man named Nalen, sickly from disease and nearing senility. Certainly, he would not be able to make the seven hour journey on horseback.

“King Nalen is here in person?”

“No,” Titus says, “King Nalen died this morning. His son, Gage takes his place at the new King,”

Lexa’s movement is sudden, and her face shifts from confusion to anger instantaneously.

“Why wasn’t I informed of this immediately?” Lexa asks, voice sharp.

“We only just found out,” Titus tells her, “The new King rode straight from the Shadow Valley as soon as it happened,”

“You should go,” Clarke says, standing and reaching forward to take the baby from her arms, “Find out what he wants,”

Lexa dips her head, and Clarke is left to scoop mashed potato off their daughter’s forehead all alone.

 

* * *

 

What King Gage wants, is for the Commander of the thirteen clans to be present at his coronation.

At least, that’s what Lexa tells her.

Lexa perfected the stoicism of her mask long before Clarke knew her, but Clarke reads her so easily, maps out every twitch of her jaw, quiver of her lip, flash of emotion in her eyes.

Lexa tells her from the balcony of their bedroom, hands gripped to the railing so tightly her knuckles turn white. It’s only a week, she tries to reason, just long enough for King Gage to establish his claim to the throne.

“It’s not for long,” Clarke assures her, sweeping her hand down the rigid path of Lexa’s back, “We’ll be fine,”

“Of course you will,” Lexa says, though her voice wavers.

Before Luca’s birth, Lexa and Clarke travelled together throughout the thirteen clans, a duty Lexa very often had to see to. But all plans for travel had ceased the moment Luca arrived in Polis, and Lexa had not left since. It was only a matter of time, Clarke has always known, but it seems Lexa had forgotten. She falls quiet, and stares out into the sky, lips pressed together contemplatively.

“I was never supposed to live this long,” Lexa says abruptly, voice quiet, “The way our system is designed— I was never supposed to live,”

The comment comes from almost nowhere and Clarke frowns, her hand on Lexa’s waist tightens protectively.

“But you did,” She says, “You’re here. You changed the system. You ensured peace,”

Lexa’s smile is rigid, forced. She doesn’t look at Clarke, but out to the steaming streets of Polis, alive with the buzz of the morning markets.

“To be Commander is to be entirely devoted,” She says, “To be Commander is to put my people first, no matter what,”

Clarke watches her carefully, watches as her jaw flexes as it tightens, as the tips of her fingers become white with the pressure she puts upon them. Her hand rests on Lexa’s back reassuringly, a reminder of her presence.

“And you do,” She assures.

“I am afraid,” Lexa whispers, “I am afraid that if I had to choose, really choose, I could not put them first the way the Commander must,”

Clarke bites her lip, and strokes up Lexa’s back reassuringly. It is times like these she wishes so desperately she could share the weight Lexa is destined to bear. Instead, she must settle for entwining their fingers, grounding Lexa with her touch.

"You will never have to choose," Clarke promises, "I would never make you"

Lexa’s hand squeezes hers gently.

“It’s only a week,” Clarke says softly, “And then you’ll be home,”

 

* * *

 

To Clarke, home is not Polis. Home is not Arkadia. Home was never the Ark, home was never the tent courted in the drop ship, nor the metal walls of her prison cell.

Clarke’s home is Lexa. And when she’s gone, Clarke has no home at all.

 

* * *

 

In the winter, Luca turns one.

She takes her first shaky steps down the red carpet of Lexa’s throne room, beaming a one-toothed smile.

At first, she stumbles around like a tiny drunk, falling more than she walks, and clinging to every available surface in order to prop herself up. Clarke thinks she would stay up for longer if she weren’t in such a hurry, but Luca has no time for walking, and instead races around the room in five step bursts, only to topple to the floor in a giggling heap.

If there were ever any child that quite literally tried to run before she could walk, Clarke thinks it only fitting it be hers.

When Luca finally masters control of her own legs, she is never still for too long; she zooms around the hallways, dipping in and out of the tower’s crevices, exploring the depths of the guard quarters or climbing atop Lexa’s throne when Titus isn’t around to scold her.

She runs circles around Lexa’s guards, has Clarke chasing her up and down the hallways like it’s a game.

In fact, the only person who can get some sort of tranquillity out of her is Lexa.

Clarke stands with her shoulder pressed to the frame of the door, small smile tugging at her lips. Lexa has Luca in her lap, and they both stare down at the book in Lexa’s hands wearing matching inquiring expressions as Lexa points out the pictures.

Luca’s hair is damp from her bath, slicked back into short blonde waves out of her face. Her eyes glow emerald in the candlelight, the same as her mother’s, and they are wide with concentration, following every picture Lexa’s points out to her.

“How do you do that?” Clarke asks abruptly, and Lexa looks up at her, fingers tangled at the base of Luca’s curls.

“Do what?” She asks absentmindedly as she helps Luca turn the page.

“Get her to sit still for that long?”

Lexa’s lips twitch into a small smirk, and she holds Clarke’s gaze, eyes twinkling.

“I’ve had some practice,” She says pointedly, eyes flickering to Clarke’s fingers drumming sporadically against the doorframe. Clarke stills them, and flicks Lexa a coy smile.

Luca whines impatiently at the sudden lack of attention, and she wriggles in Lexa’s arms, scooting forward to wrap her arms around Lexa’s neck. Lexa’s hand presses to the back of her head, fingers tangling unconsciously in the tufts of her hair.

“It’s almost long enough to braid,” Clarke comments and Lexa looks down at her thoughtfully, running her fingers through Luca’s hair.

“I suppose it is,”

Clarke shifts her weight from one foot to another, letting the conversation hang in the air. The nights before Lexa leaves are always the worst, strained and full of melancholy.

One week had turned to two, and then three, until Lexa was gone almost weekly, fulfilling her duty as Commander in all thirteen parts of the coalition. This time, it's a four day tour of the Delphi Clan, only days after Lexa’s trip to the Ice Nation.

It should be easier by now but it isn’t. The tower is cold without Lexa, their bed too big. It’s harder to sleep without the weight of Lexa against her, it’s harder to dream anything but nightmares.

Luca doesn’t understand, she wanders the room searching for Lexa, wide green eyes filling with tears when she can’t find her. Clarke hates it, she hates when Lexa leaves and she hates that she can’t ask Lexa to stay. To ask her to stay would be to ask her to neglect her duty, and Clarke won’t do that.

Luca giggles as Lexa murmurs something to her, pointing out something on the page and Clarke takes the moment to collect herself, stilling the burn behind her eyes with a deep breath.

She will deal with Lexa’s absence tomorrow, when Lexa is not around to see the tears fall. But right now, Clarke wants to freeze this moment, memorise every aspect of it. Maybe she’ll sketch when she gets the time, the elegant curve of Lexa’s jaw slanted over Luca’s blonde head, the way their eyes both follow the pictures on the page in perfect synchronisation.

“I love you,” Clarke says, unable to hold it in and she means it for both of them. Lexa meets her gaze, slightly surprised at the abruptness, but smiles all the same.

“Love you too,”

If Lexa catches the quiver of Clarke’s lip, she doesn’t mention it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your wonderful comments on the last chapter! They really do make my day and any feedback or constructive criticism is very much appreciated! On to the next!

The stars are falling from the sky.

One by one, Clarke watches as they make their descent, plummeting to the earth in a haze of smoke and fire, erupting in flashes of hot, white light.

Below her, Polis burns in a hazy smog of smoldering bodies, staining the sky black with smoke, thickening the air with fumes. Clarke watches from above, hands gripped tightly to the rail of the balcony. She wants to move, she wants to scream, to run, but she is rooted to the spot, unable to do anything but stand helpless.

Intruders ravage the city, they fly their banners high as they storm their way up the tower; Clarke can hear them coming, can hear the heavy threat of their footsteps as they make their way through the hallways, killing anyone who dares to stand in their way. 

They are close, close enough that Clarke can hear their orders, can hear their grunts as they force their way through locked doors. They want Lexa, they want her throne, her title, her head. But Lexa is not here, Lexa has been gone for weeks, and not even Clarke knows where she is.  Lexa isn’t here but Luca is, and if they can’t have the Commander, Clarke knows they’ll take her daughter instead.

Luca sits in the center of their bed, small, her eyes red and welled with tears. In her hand, she clutches her bunny, holds it tightly to her chest. She’s frightened by the fire, frightened by the thunder of the men outside her door. She cries for Clarke, but Clarke cannot reach her.

Clarke begins to panic, pressing herself to the glass of the balcony door, trying to open it, trying to force through it but it will not budge. Fear overrides her senses, dread sinking deep within her bones and she slams her hands to the glass until they are a blistered red, shouting for Lexa, screaming for Luca, kicking and pounding and trying to break through.

She slams her hands against the door once more, glass drawing thick ropes of blood from her palms, and screams for Luca to run, screams for her to hide but Luca only blinks back at her, bottom lip trembling.

Another white flash of light erupts around her, and suddenly tens of masked men force their way through the bedroom doors, their daggers raised high, stained a deep red.   

Luca begins to cry again.

_'Wanheda,’_  They hiss to the blood stained reflection of the glass case that keeps Clarke trapped, _‘Where you go, death will always follow’_  

Clarke screams, pounds at the door in front of her, gashing her hands until they are raw. They are in her bedroom, they have their hands on her child, tugging at her roughly as she sobs, tiny and scared.

Clarke’s throat burns, her vision blurred, her hands red with blood. She thrashes against the door wildly, she begs them to stop, she pleads for them to take her instead. 

Luca’s cries halt suddenly, deafeningly.

Clarke’s scream rips through her chest and burns down her throat, pain bursting through her like a wildfire, erupting and consuming every corner of her body. 

A final burst of light erupts behind her eyes and jolts her awake, body slick with sweat, heart thumping in her throat through her gasps, vision blurred with a well of tears. She choke, feels the fur under her fingertips mat with sweat and tears and mucus. Her racing heart slows, her sobs quieten under the weight of the empty room.

Her dream is heavily familiar, and so is the cool spot next to her where Lexa should lie.

 

* * *

 

“You look like crap,”

Octavia has never been one for pleasantries, and today is no different. Baby tucked under her arm, her gaze is fixed on the dark circles under Clarke’s eyes, expression harsh. She isn’t the first to notice, but she might just be the first to comment, and Clarke breaks her gaze hastily, turning it to the baby in her own arms.

“Thanks for doing this,” She says as if Octavia has said nothing at all, “I know it’s last minute.”

Octavia stares at her for a long moment, before nodding, eyes reluctant.

“Sure,” She says, stepping out of the door frame, a silent invitation for Clarke to come in, “It’s no problem.”

Octavia and Lincoln’s quarters are smaller than her own, but no less cluttered. Plush toys and wooden horses line the stone of the floor, piled in a messy heap and Luca wriggles in her arms at the sight, hands reaching for them. 

Clarke sets her down, and before she can so much as kiss her goodbye, Luca’s zooming off, toddling determinedly towards a tower of wooden blocks. 

“I should only be an hour,” Clarke says, turning to Octavia, “Just long enough to get the clinic under control.”

The backlog of people hovering in the clinic waiting room was spilling onto the streets, and in a frenzied panic, Vann, the leader healer, had sent a messenger for her. Her usual minder retired for the day, Octavia was always a safe bet, and so Clarke had plucked Luca from her bath and raced her down, hair still dripping at its ends. 

Clarke runs a hand through her hair as Octavia sets her own child down, a boy named Dash, only months older than Luca, with big brown eyes and tufts of jet black hair. He stares as Luca rifles through his toys, throwing the ones she doesn't like behind her in a path of destruction. 

“Take your time,” Octavia says, drawing her attention, “Lincoln will be home soon, she won’t be any trouble.” 

“She’s always trouble,” Clarke says with a small smile, and almost immediately, Luca sends Dash’s tower of blocks crumbling to the ground. 

Octavia snorts. 

“Yeah well, she’s no match for me,” She says good-naturedly, “Seriously.”

Clarke nods, and the smile on her face is forced.

 

* * *

 

When Clarke started the clinic in Polis, she did so with the help of no less than three people. The first was Lexa, who helped secure the its funding. The second was her mother, who took the time out of her own clinic in Arkadia to help Clarke set up the equipment, and help her secure the necessary items for the supply route. The third, was a man known as Vann, the only healer within Polis who was willing to work with her, an outsider, as she was when she first arrived in the city. 

Five years of partnership with Vann and her clinic is thriving, the only center in the entirety of Polis which shares the advanced medical knowledge and equipment needed to sustain its population. However, five years of peace meant five years without major bloodshed, and as such, Polis’ population grows larger than it has ever before. Clarke’s clinic isn’t small, but it is easily overwhelmed, especially in the face of viral outbreaks. 

“We need more beds,” Is Mya’s gruff form of greeting as Clarke squeezes past a line of sick bodies to the entrance of the clinic, “We’re not even halfway through them all and we’re already full.” 

Clarke looks with dismay as she calculates the line of writhing bodies occupying the beds. Some are sitting, heads in their buckets, others are clutching at their stomachs, pale with sickness. Pulling a mask over her mouth, she stands with her hands on her hips trying desperately to rack her brain for a solution.

“I’m sorry for calling you in,” Vann says, suddenly behind her. Vann is the largest man Clarke has ever seen, with tattoos that clasp around his neck and a thick beard that coats his chin. His eyes, warm and brown, are sympathetic. 

“It’s fine,” Clarke says, “You couldn’t have managed all this on your own.”

She gestures to the thick line of patients and Vann grimaces, his eyes darting from one to another. 

“I’ve sent Kris for another thirty beds,” He says, “But it won’t be enough.” 

Clarke nods, swallowing thickly. 

“There’s barely enough room for twenty percent of the people here,” Vann continues, frowning, “We need to start turning people away.”

At this, Clarke raises her head sharply.

_“No,”_ She says firmly.

“Clarke--” Vann says hesitantly, “If we don’t we’ll be inundated--”

“I said no,” Clarke orders, eyes hardening determinedly, “We can manage.”

Vann stares at her, looking both frustrated and vaguely impressed by her stubborn resolve. By now, he knows this of Clarke, knows she will not be swayed one way if she believes there is a better alternative. She stand tall expecting a challenge, but it never comes, instead Vann bows his head and steps back. 

“Alright,” He says, sounding slightly impressed, “We’ll manage.” 

They manage, as they always do, but for the fifth night in a row, Luca falls asleep without her.

 

* * *

 

Summer in Polis is something Clarke has come to dread.

It isn’t the sweltering heat, or the stench of sweat that drifts from the over-packed city streets. It isn’t that the Clinic becomes overrun with cases of heatstroke and sunburn, nor is it that Luca cries and fusses until she’s dipped into a cool bath, her little cheeks tinted scarlet from overheating.   

Clarke dreads the induction of new nightbloods that Titus brings back to the city, never less than one, often small and always scared.

This summer is no different, and Clarke watches as Titus strides through the hallway, two young children trailing after him. A boy and a girl, they stand with their heads dropped and their eyes fixated on the floor. The boy looks as if he may cry, lip trembling, and the girl is not much better, eyes red and puffy, cheeks hollowed.

Clarke feels a sharp pang of sympathy; they are young, surely cannot be a day over four years old. Most likely they were taken not only from their homes, but also their families. Clarke suddenly imagines Lexa, tiny and frightened after watching her own village burn. She imagines her own daughter being taken, given a sword and forced to fight, and the taste in her mouth sours. She swallows the lump in her throat and forces to look away from the sight as Titus leads them forward, no patience for their tears.

They are going to Lexa, Clarke reminds herself, charging forward with a shake of her head. Or at least they would be when she arrived home. Lexa, who is a well of endless patience, Lexa who commands peace instead of war, Lexa who loves each one as if they are her own.

It makes it easier to stomach, even if only for a little while.

 

* * *

 

Clarke has never been so thankful to see her mother.

Lexa is away, as she often is nowadays. The last stretch of autumn leaves fall and with them, Titus has her in every corner of the thirteen clans, maximising her time with clan leaders and trade disputes before the winter comes and the snow will be too thick to travel through. 

When the winter finally arrives Lexa will be all hers, but until then, Clarke spends her nights in a cold empty bed, fingers pressing desperately into the spot next to her as if it will somehow magically make Lexa appear. 

Her days are not much better. The success of the clinic attracts heavy streams of people daily; it isn’t only the people of Polis who come for medical attention, but people from all over the thirteen clans, neighbouring farms and villages. She works from dawn til dusk trying to help them all but is it never enough. No matter how hard she works, no matter how many hours overtime she puts in, there are always more. 

And when she finally manages to make it home, be it three in the morning or seven at night, Luca is always there to greet her with a temper tantrum.  

“Ah,” Abby says, her voice grave, “The terrible twos,”

Luca sits in her high chair, one sock on loosely hanging off her foot, the other thrown across the room. Her cheeks and the tips of her fingers are covered in a thick red, sauce, and what remains of her meal sits at the base of the floor in a heap of mince and broken ceramic where she has thrown it. Her face is tinged red from the heat of her tantrum, hair wild and mused, cheeks stained with the path of her tears as she watches for Clarke’s reaction. 

Usually, Clarke’s tolerance for this kind of thing is higher than this. Luca does this often, purposefully misbehaves to get a rise out of her, and as a general rule, it rarely works. Tonight however, the effects of her fourteen hour day are quick to catch up on her, and she feels her temper flare before she can get a handle on it. She grinds her teeth together, grip on her fork so tight she almost snaps it in half before she feels her mother's hand on her arm, soothing her with the comfort of her presence. 

She bites the inside of her cheek, and rises, scooping a spoonful of her own meal and dropping it to the tray of Luca’s chair. 

“Luca,” She says evenly, “Don’t throw your food on the floor.” 

Luca’s eyes burn with defiance, and she looks Clarke straight in the eye as she picks up a fistful of the food in front of her and tosses it to the ground. 

“You--” Clarke starts with a growl but before she can finish Abby’s hands are on her shoulders, drawing her back.    

“Marcus,” Abby says swiftly, taking control, “Take Luca back to our room and clean get her cleaned up, would you?” 

Kane looks between them, fork halfway lifted to his mouth. He looks as if he might say something, but the burn of Abby’s glare is enough for him to drop his fork to his plate and stand, nodding gently. 

“Of course,” He says, and he complies, drawing her out of her chair at arms length and carrying her out of the room. She goes with only mild protest, and Clarke lets out a relieved breath at her exit, head already pounding at the thought of having to deal with another tantrum.    

“Clarke,” Abby says sternly, and Clarke goes rigid. 

“What?” 

“You look exhausted,” Abby says, hands reaching to press against Clarke’s cheeks, “How many hours did you work this week?” 

Clarke swats her away, voice disgruntled, “Enough.”

Abby purses her lips and Clarke sinks back into her chair, forcing herself to look at the mess of food on her plate rather than the concern in her mother's eyes. 

Abby’s expression softens, “I’m worried about you,” 

There’s a lump in Clarke’s throat that she can’t quite swallow. Her days have become so long, they take everything from her. Her nights come with the promise of a nightmare, and they leave her empty and drained, running on three hours sleep. Luca is more than a handful, and every tantrum she throws takes whatever tiny bit of energy Clarke has managed to salvage away. She’s tired, and Abby’s gaze is so strong, so loving and safe that all she wants to do is to let herself collapse, fall in a heap of frustration and exhaustion into her mother’s arms. 

But she is not sixteen anymore, she is not without responsibility. There are people who need her, people who rely on her and she cannot let herself crumble. 

“I’m just having a bad day,” She says, voice wavering unconvincingly, “That’s all.” 

Abby’s eyes on her are disbelievingly, and she presses a soft hand to Clarke’s shoulder. For a moment, they sit in silence as Abby observes her, quietly contemplating. 

“What if I were to stay in Polis,” She suggests suddenly, and Clarke’s head jerks up in surprise, “Just for a few weeks, until Lexa returns.”

“Mom--”

“I can help out with the baby,” Abby continues, “I can watch her while you work, give you a break--”

“Mom, I can’t ask you to do that,” Clarke says, “They need you in Arkadia.” 

“I’m offering Clarke,” Abby says, and something familiar burns behind her eyes, a present sense of unshakable adamance. She knows this expression well, recognises this look of determination is often found behind her own gaze. Abby has made up her mind, and Clarke knows there’s little she can do to change it. 

“And who’s going to run the clinic?” Clarke protests weakly, “It would fall apart without you--” 

“Jackson is more than capable of watching over it for a couple of weeks,” Abby reassures, tugging Clarke’s hands into her own, “And you need me here.”

Clarke furrows her brows, and opens her mouth to counter the claim indignantly but Abby is quicker, squeezing down on her fingers gently to silence her.

“ _I_ need to be here.”  

Clarke looks at her searchingly, watches the depths of her gaze for any hint of disingenuity. She finds nothing but love, the kind that is so bare-boned and honest it burns through her, makes her throat close up and she has to force herself to look away, overwhelmed by its intensity. 

Clarke gives into it, dropping her head in the smallest of nods, and falling forward bonelessly when her mother wraps her arms around her.

 

* * *

 

Abby stays. 

Clarke watches as she kisses Kane goodbye, one hand pressed to the warmth of his chest, the other wrapped around the baby in her arms. The sight is so achingly familiar to her it almost hurts to watch, and so she diverts her gaze to study the broken panes of the window instead.

She feels guilty as she watches Kane leave alone, but Abby’s press on her arm is reassuring, and the smile on Luca’s face is so wide it dampers the remorse in her chest, if only for one moment. 

It’s nice, Clarke reluctantly admits, to have her mother around.

It’s nice having company that doesn’t throw their food at her at the dinner table, it’s nice being able to come home and know she isn’t keeping Octavia and Lincoln awake babysitting, or having to apologise when Luca inevitably breaks something or screams the tower down.

Abby doesn’t just help out with Luca, she wanders down to the clinic when she has a few hours, helps with any extra patients or gives advice to some of their newer healers. When Clarke comes home from a long day, Abby is waiting for her with freshly heated lemon-cakes and a cup of tea, ready to listen for the details, happy to fill the silence with her own recount if Clarke doesn’t feel like talking. 

Having her mother around is nice. 

But when Clarke finally sinks into another broken cycle of nightmares, this time Abby dies too.

  


* * *

 

Aden is no longer the young boy she once knew.

He now towers above her, lean and strong, sandy-blonde hair mussed messily across his forehead. His jaw is strong and his cheekbones sit high, like he’s carved from marble, but his eyes betray the stoicism of his stance, misty blue and sparkling with warmth. 

He is the strongest of Lexa’s nightbloods, the star of her protégé. He has studied under her for so long Clarke can see Lexa in each movement he makes, whether it be the way he squares his shoulders when he speaks, or the way he holds himself, tall and unwavering, with his hands clasped tightly at his front. 

His strength is what gave him his position as head of the guard, something Lexa fought Titus tooth and nail for. As such, wherever Lexa goes, Aden is never far behind; his presence here in Polis means only one thing, and Clarke’s heart begins to race at the thought. 

“Clarke,” He says evenly as she approaches him, hand still steadily held comfortably on the handle of his dagger.

“Aden? You’re back?” She asks, confused and vaguely startled. 

He bows his head, eyes twinkling knowingly.

“We returned this morning,” He states, “Our business with the Delphi clan wrapped up early. Heda remained for the feast, but she assured she would leave soon after.” 

The knot in Clarke’s stomach at Lexa being only hours away tightens and it must show in her face, because Aden’s smile is light. Aden doesn’t reside on this level of the tower, and even when Lexa is up here, he never strays much further past the throne room. His visit is deliberate and Clarke feels a rush of rush of overwhelming gratitude towards him for it.

She tells him this, and when the look on his face turns to something akin to Lexa’s expression when she’s pleased with herself, Clarke can’t help but laugh.   


 

* * *

 

Lexa’s returns are always fleeting.

There always seem to be another clan to visit, another tension to diffuse. Lexa comes home with a smile on her face, peppers their baby with kisses, sinks deep into Clarke’s embrace. Clarke makes love to her, desperately, frantically, as if Titus will drag her away before she has the chance to show Lexa how deeply she misses her. And the next day she is gone, leaving only her scent in the sheets and a heavy kiss upon Clarke’s lips. 

But something this time is different.

Clarke stands at the base of their bed, shoulders squared, heart racing in preparation for Lexa’s arrival. Octavia has Luca, will watch over her just long enough for Clarke to pull Lexa into bed and make her wonder why she ever left.

Heart in her throat, she watches as the bedroom door swings open and Lexa is there, beautiful as she always is, standing in her Commander attire, red sash falling down her side, gear resting between her eyebrows.

“Clarke,” She breathes, and Clarke watches as all tension leaves her shoulders at the sight of her. Her green eyes fill with a desperate longing that rivals Clarke’s own, and for a moment they just stand, taking one another in.

It’s ridiculous, Clarke thinks, because Lexa has been gone less than two weeks, but her heart still thrums like it’s the first time all over again, and when Lexa moves towards her she all but falls into her embrace. 

She doesn’t realise she’s crying until she can taste the salt against Lexa’s neck, and when Lexa pulls back with a slight frown, fingers brushing the wetness staining Clarke’s cheeks, she lingers on the matching bags under Clarke’s eyes where they stain a deep purple.

“Clarke,” Lexa whispers, her eyes round, filled with sadness. Clarke catches her fingers in her own, pressing her body as tightly as she can against Lexa. Her eyes are heavy, and her heart aches at the look Lexa gives her, but Lexa is warm and solid against her, and Clarke doesn’t want this moment to be sad.

“Couldn’t sleep last night,” She mumbles in excuse, eyes dropping to where Lexa’s lips part, plump and red, yearning to be kissed. She tries to reach forward but Lexa keeps her at arms length, hands on her waist, eyes apprehensive as she surveys her.

“ _Clarke_ ,” She says again, agonisingly. Lexa won’t be fooled by a lie, or by the same lame excuses she uses on Octavia or her mom. Lexa knows her by heart, knows parts of her nobody else does.

“I miss you,” Clarke breathes the truth this time, and when Lexa’s eyes catch her own and they flash with love and longing and sadness, their intensity enough to steal the breath from Clarke’s throat. Sorrow overtakes the features of Lexa’s face, and there’s an apology on the tip of her tongue Clarke can preempt. Clarke doesn’t want sadness or remorse. She doesn’t want Lexa to apologise for things out of her control. She wants Lexa against her, she wants to take Lexa to bed and show her the extent of her love, show her the most of her longing.

Lexa’s lips open and Clarke doesn’t wait another second, diving forward and capturing Lexa, trapping her unspoken apology between the desperate tug of their mouths. Before Lexa can so much as whimper Clarke is undressing her, winding the straps of her top off skillfully in an art she mastered long ago.

Lexa shakes against her, the pulse of her lips desperate as Clarke presses her against the mattress with a frenzied force. She shivers as Clarke maps her skin with her lips, shudders as Clarke slips so insistently inside her, wanting to feel her, wanting to be surrounded by her. Lexa is warm and wet and looks up at her so prettily, long eyelashes framing the sea of green in her eyes, lips plump and stained red with the force of Clarke’s kisses.

Clarke makes love to her until Lexa’s body is worn inside and out, and she gasps through her swollen lips for Clarke to stop, body littered with purple marks, messy and overstimulated. 

And for the first time in weeks, with Lexa’s naked, sweaty body tucked against her own, Clarke doesn’t fall asleep to a nightmare.

 

* * *

 

Lexa doesn’t leave again.

Clarke waits with her heart in the throat for the announcement, for Titus to barge in with a fleet of horses waiting, or Lexa to turn to her, eyes wide and full of sorrow. But it never comes.

Instead, Lexa wakes up beside her, nudges her into the mattress with sleepy kisses. Instead, Lexa wanders down to the clinic when her duties for the day are through, squirming toddler in her arms and smile on her face. Instead, Lexa stays.

At first, Clarke is annoyed.

Titus’ glares are the darkest they’ve ever been, and Indra is noticeably missing from each meeting they attend. Lexa has sent a messenger in her place, sent a secondary to tend to the duties only the Commander can fulfil. Of all the things Clarke is to the Commander, she promised herself a hindrance would never be one of them.

Lexa stays for her, Lexa is neglecting her duties for her. The thought makes Clarke angry, the thought Lexa thinks she’s weakened to the point her presence is a necessity, fragile enough to warrant the halt of her role as Commander.

Clarke has lived through much worse than sleepless nights; she has stormed through every kind of pain, through death, through despair. Clarke has felt hopelessness, felt loss, time and time again, but it hasn’t yet broken her and Clarke knows it never will. 

She doesn’t _need_ Lexa, no matter how much she wants her, and with Lexa or without her, Clarke will not crumble.  

She flies through the corridors of the castle, making her way to their bedroom to tell Lexa just this; to get back on her horse and get back to their people. To leave with the reassurance Clarke will remain strong, even when she feels weak.

She presses the doors to their bedroom open with a rigorous determination, but the sight that greets her has her words die in her throat.

Lexa sits in their rocking chair, baby in her arms, swaying her back and forth. Luca is asleep, Clarke thinks, or at least very near it, and Lexa cradles her carefully, resting her hand on the back of the baby’s head. They look serene this way, and for the first time in so long, Lexa is without a hard jaw or a furrowed brow. Her cheeks have hollowed from all those weeks away, her frame thinned, but here Clarke cannot even tell. There’s no sorrow in her eyes or worry on her face. She is relaxed, she is calm, she is at peace. 

The shooting realisation feels like a knife to the gut.

It is easy to forget sometimes, the extent of the intensity Lexa feels because she hides it so deeply, buries it so well not even Clarke can find it in the momentary peculiarities of her expressions. 

She forgets it must take the same amount of strength, the same amount of willpower to leave instead of be left. She imagines the same, to leave Lexa and Luca for weeks on end, working tirelessly only to be met with more walls, more restrictions, more reasons she can’t return home to her family.

She is suddenly rushed with a wave of overwhelming sadness because although Lexa is either here with her, with Titus and her guards, never alone, she must feel so lonely under the weight her title burdens. 

Lexa doesn’t leave again, and Clarke realises it’s not just for her.

 

* * *

 

“Promise you’ll write.”

Abby’s hands grip so tightly on either side of her cheeks Clarke’s afraid she’s going to leave imprints. She brings her own hands up to relieve some of the tension, gripping her mother’s wrists firmly. 

“I promise.” She says, and before she can say anything more Abby is pulling her into tight hug, hands wrapped around Clarke and squeezing like so doesn’t ever want to properly let go. 

“Mom--” She protests, voice muffled from the way her face is being held tightly in the crook of Abby’s neck and Abby lets her go gently, pressing a heavy kiss to her forehead. 

“Look after yourself,” Abby says seriously, hands retaking their place either side of Clarke’s cheeks, brushing the hair from her face with a quick flick, “Give Luca a kiss everyday from me.” 

Clarke nods, squeezing at Abby’s hands gently.

“I’m never far,” Abby says, quieter this time, “If you ever need anything-- I’m never far.”

Her eyes become misty, and Clarke squeezes harder, hoping she knows what it means to her, not quite having the strength to utter the words.

“I’ll see you soon,” She promises, as Abby blinks away the well in her eyes with a tight smile, “I promise.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke should have listened to Raven. 

When she had visited in the spring, she thought Bellamy, with the gaunt look on his face and messy, tempered hair was overreacting. She thought Raven’s hushed warning was melodramatic, the wild look on her face far too theatrical to be based in any main truths.

_‘They turn on you!’_ Was Raven’s ominous prediction, shaking Clarke by her shoulders madly, _‘When they hit two, they just turn.’_

At the time it seemed absurd. Luca was such a happy baby, always smiling, always wanting to play, always wanting to cuddle. In contrast, Arlo was as much as a handful as Clarke would expect any child of Raven’s to be, always loud, always in trouble. The very fact was Clarke thought her child was as close to an angel as humanly possible, good-tempered, sweet and never misbehaving. 

Clarke was naive and Raven was right. 

Luca is sweet, _sometimes_ , and she is still crawls into Clarke’s arms when she wants to be held, or nudges her bunny into Lexa’s hands when she wants to play. But she also screams bloody murder when she’s tired or hungry, tosses her food from her plate when she doesn’t want it.

She struggles with her words, frowning when she can’t remember the names for things, getting frustrated when Clarke can’t understand the broken sentences she strings together. When she learns the word ‘no’, she applies it to almost every question she’s asked, and when she learns Lexa will chase her if she tries to run, she races through the hallways and cries and squirms when she’s caught. 

Not even Lexa, who for the most part is annoyingly good at managing anything and everything when it comes to Luca is immune to this. 

“I don’t understand,” Lexa says, voice strained, eyes wide and panicked, hair frazzled, “I don’t understand what she _wants_!”  

Clarke observes the situation from the door, tilting her head slightly to the side. Luca is sprawled across the floor on her back, crying so fiercely she’s almost unrecognisable under a haze of blotchy red cheeks and salt-stained tears. Lexa stands before her, bottle in one hand, bunny in the other, looking so out of place in her distress that Clarke has to bite back a laugh. 

Lexa, who remains calm and collected under the threat of war has been brought to her knees by a screaming two-year old.  

“She’s tired,” Clarke says, recognising the sheer power behind the force of her cries, “She isn’t as grouchy when she’s hungry.” 

Luca’s sobs still when she hears Clarke’s voice, and Clarke kneels just to time to catch Luca barrelling towards her, wrapping herself tightly in Clarke’s arms.

Over the tuft of messy blonde hair, Clarke thinks she sees Lexa’s expression drop from agitated to crestfallen, but before she can be sure Lexa has turned, dropping the bottle in her hands and reaching for the blankets in Luca’s crib, “Of course,” Clarke hears her murmur, “I didn’t even think--” 

Luca sniffles into her neck, and Clarke frowns, watching as Lexa runs a hand through her hair, jaw twitching the way it does when she’s upset. She lifts Luca easily, taking her in both hands as she stands and moves towards her wife, reaching for her hand searchingly.

“Hey, you okay?” 

Lexa looks up at her, eyes dark and unsettled. She’s been up all day, left before Clarke even awoke for a council meeting. She looks tired, and annoyed and frustrated but there’s something deeper behind the surface, something that lingers despite Lexa’s best efforts to conceal it.

“I’m fine, Clarke,” She brushes off, “You should put the baby to bed, I have to speak with Titus about something.”

“You’re upset.” Clarke says plainly, and Lexa looks at her, eyes filling with exasperation.

“I’m not upset.” Lexa says, though her voice falters.

“You’re upset that you couldn’t stop her crying.” 

Lexa’s jaw shifts, lips pressing tightly together and Clarke knows she’s hit the nail on the head. Lexa’s eyes swim with guilt, with doubt and it makes Clarke ache.

“I’ve been away too much.” Lexa says ruefully after a long pause.

Clarke watches her contemplatively, shifting Luca in her arms. She steps forward, forcing Lexa’s arms open and she drops her into her hands, brushing a lock of blonde hair from Luca’s forehead. Luca looks up at Lexa with a wide, tear-filled expression, lips pouted, and for a moment, Clarke thinks she’s going to start crying again. Instead, she drops her head, eyes dropping and snuggles into the warm of Lexa’s neck, hands coming to tuck under her own chin.   

“You’re here now.” 

She says it firmly, like she needs Lexa to believe it. Lexa’s hand drops from the base of Luca’s back to tangle with her own, and the smile she gives is watery at best, but appreciative. Lexa squeezes her fingers and for the first time in a long time, Clarke feels whole.

 

* * *

 

“What do you think of Aden?” Lexa asks later that night as they lay in bed, seemingly out of nowhere. Clarke looks up from her book, eyebrows creased to meet Lexa’s expectant stare. She takes a moment to think, dropping her book to her lap.

“He’s a good warrior,” Clarke answers carefully, looking at her wife suspiciously, “He leads the guard well. Why?”

Lexa’s nod is short, her hum contemplative.

“Are you thinking of promoting him?” Clarke asks, confused and Lexa’s smile is wry.

“Perhaps,” She answers coyly, but before she can elaborate a small voice calls out for her, standing in her crib, hair mussed and voice sleepy. Lexa is up before Clarke can even turn her head, lifting Luca from her crib and pressing a kiss to her cheek. Luca is too drowsy to do anything but tuck her head into Lexa’s neck, but Lexa’s lips curl in the same happy smile she reserves only for Luca.

When Lexa climbs back into bed, dropping Luca gently between them, Clarke is so caught up in the way Luca snuggles into her, giggling sleepily as Lexa tickles her sides lightly that she forgets Lexa’s look of suspicious introspection until the next morning.

 

* * *

 

The change in Lexa is subtle, though Clarke is the first to notice.

Instead of walking the halls with Titus at her side, she spends long evenings locked in the war room in deep talks with Aden. Instead of travelling out to meet clan leaders she spends more time in the yard with the nightbloods, pushing them to their very limits with her training. Instead of asking Clarke her advice on trade routes and land disputes, Lexa asks about clan leaders, about who is onside and who she can sway if need be.

And so when Lexa comes to her, hands laced tightly at her front, expression much too serious to be anything but Commander related, Clarke is not caught off guard. 

“You want to change the way the conclave is held?” Clarke asks abruptly, summarising the gist of Lexa’s long-winded explanation. Lexa pauses, lips pursed and bows her head, eyes locked on Clarke’s reaction.

“Yes,” She says carefully, hesitance blooming behind her eyes, “But not just that.”

Clarke knows it before Lexa says it, has known it for a while. 

Before Luca, they talked about things like this. Changing the shape of the leadership, changing the role of the nightbloods. The conclave was senseless, Lexa explained, the conclave was a waste. The training the nightbloods undertook was the most rigorous of any position, and as such nightblood children often grew to be the most highly trained warriors and strategists within the thirteen clans. To kill all except one made no sense, and promised she would overcome it.

But there was always something more beneath Lexa’s eyes, something she held back, even from someone she trusted as much as Clarke. Clarke has suspected for a while, seen it in each order Lexa gives, felt it in every kiss she receives. And so when Lexa finally says it, Clarke is not not surprised.

“I want to step down as Commander.”

To hear it aloud is different than to suspect, and Clarke sucks in a heavy breath. It’s scarier when the words come out of Lexa’s own mouth, and Clarke feels herself frightened at the possibility of the unknown consequences.

“Lexa--” She says warily, unsure of where to begin but Lexa cuts her off with a shake of her head.

“Clarke, I have been Commander for over ten years,” Lexa says boldly, “That is the average lifespan of two different Commanders.”

Clarke opens her mouth to interject but Lexa beats her to it, continuing swiftly as if this is a speech she knows by heart, given countless times before even if only to herself.

“When I first ascended the possibility of a coalition was almost non-existent. Peace was out of the question. But now here we are, our clans flourish, there has been no major bloodshed in years.”

 “Lexa--” 

“The Commander must be the ultimate embodiment of the three pillars,” Lexa says firmly, “We are all mortal, Clarke. Death used to direct the spirit of the Commander, but peacetime has taken its autonomy. If there is no death to take it must be self-guided--”

“And what if your spirit chooses someone ill-suited?” Clarke interjects, “What if you step down and the coalition crumbles? What if war erupts?” 

Lexa looks at her dubiously, “Clarke, I have been training each one of my potential successors from the day of my ascension. If I’m certain of anything, it’s that I trust each one with peace, and each one with my coalition.” 

Clarke looks at her, eyes weathering a storm, grinding her jaw together uncertainly.  

“And what does Titus think?” Clarke asks tightly, though she already knows the answer.

“Titus thinks it is a mistake.”

Titus thought their relationship a mistake, he thought their union was a mistake. And their child, he thinks her a mistake too. Clarke has learned not to put too much stock into his opinion. Apparently Lexa has too.

“How would it work?”

“An adapted version of the conclave,” She says steadily, “They would be tested on the core foundations of being Commander; strength, strategy and survival. The participant with the highest overall score would ascend.”

Clarke surveys her carefully, watching as Lexa’s lips purse, eyes bright with determination. She is confident in her plan, though she waits with a careful regard, and Clarke knows Lexa is waiting for her to weigh in.

“ _Lexa_ ,” Clarke hushes softly, “I-- I don’t know.” 

Lexa’s eyes soften, and she presses her hands to Clarke’s waist, gripping her tightly. Clarke is unsure as she gazes at her, but Lexa’s eyes don’t waver, never damper in their certainty. She lets herself wonder for a moment, she imagines how Lexa’s plan would come to be. Lexa would no longer have to leave for days on end or be dragged away for war room briefings in the middle of the night. Lexa would be able to walk through the streets without a fleet of guards, Lexa would be able to travel with Clarke to Arkadia without Titus insisting on accompanying them.

Lexa could be Lexa. Not the leader of the thirteen clans, not the bringer of peace, not Heda. Just Lexa.

The green of Lexa’s eyes glows under soft orange of the sunset, and she looks so earnest, so young and sure-willed Clarke can’t resist the hand she brings to cup her cheek, tracing the drop of Lexa’s cheekbones with her fingertips. Temptation grips so firmly at her, and she is so used to blocking it out, ignoring it, it feels foreign to let it seduce her.

The life Lexa is offering her, the sense of normality is so entrancing and she wants it, not just for herself, not just for their daughter, but for Lexa too. 

“We don’t have to decide right now.” Lexa cuts in gently, “We don’t have to decide tonight.”

The well of her eyes is cautious, soft, as if she doesn’t want to scare Clarke into anything, back her into a decision. But when Lexa’s arms come to rest around her body, tugging Clarke fully into her, breathing her in, Clarke knows her decision has already been made.

  



End file.
